and generally BS-ing the day away, while Matt keeps himself occupied below. There’s virtually no conversation passing between us at this point. Come sundown, we are still bobbing


around in the middle of Haro Strait and it suddenly seems like an excellent idea to toast a fond farewell to Ole Sol and our good Canadian friends. Out comes the gin and tonic. The first toast is so well received, it seems a downright insult to international relations not to have another, and then another, and two hours later we find ourselves becalmed in the darkness, smashed. The water is absolutely flat, the air absolutely clear, and there are flashing navigation lights everywhere I look, with little apparent differences in distance between them. Though I have sailed this area many times in the daylight, the familiar contours of the islands themselves are gone and I can’t tell where we are. After several consultations with the chart, the compass and each other, we finally identify the Cattle Point light, douse the sails and motor northeast into the San Juan Channel. I am God’s own drunk and tell Eric we need to look for a place to anchor,


now. On the west side of the channel, a mile or so above Cattle Point, I blearily spot some houses on shore with lights shining through the windows and reason it must be shallow enough to anchor nearby. Depth sounder on, I creep in far enough to see the houses rest on flat ground about 20 feet above the sea with a sheer rock wall between us. We seem to have plenty of water beneath us (10 feet?) and Eric drops the anchor from the bow. I back the boat to set the hook, give it plenty of scope, and shut the engine off. Just as we are getting ready to go below, the owner of the house in front of us, surely drawn by all of our clanking around, appears with a flashlight on the bank, telling us we are too close to shore and likely to go aground during the night unless we move. With profuse thanks, we move off another 15 yards or so, reset the hook and crash. I awaken at dawn with God’s


own hangover and go up to survey the damage. The cockpit is a mess; cushions strewn about, empty plastic glasses with spent lime slices in them, lines uncoiled. But we are 30 or 40 yards off shore, the anchor held, the sun is


rising in a cloudless azure sky; it will be a nice day. I tidy up a bit. There is a light southerly breeze, unusual here this early in the morning, and I decide to take advantage of it. I raise the main and jib, and sail off the hook running north. I have the boat to myself for a while, an expanse of calm blue water, rocky shores and fir trees in every direction I look. Eric remains below until we arrive


in Friday Harbor a few hours later and clear customs back into the States. Matt is packed and antsy to go. Eric and I see him off on the ferry to Anacortes where his wife will pick him up and I am glad he is gone. Now it is just my brother and I, the way the voyage was meant to be, and we spend the rest of the day recuperating, chatting with other sailors in the marina. The boat is again shipshape, the


crew restored to health and, anxious to be homeward bound, we motor south first thing in the morning. The high pressure cell, which usually provides the reliable summer northwesterlies, has moved inland and there will be no wind at all today. We enter the Strait of Juan de Fuca a few hours later, laying


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48° NORTH, SEPTEMBER 2010 PAGE 60


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